XIV.

And sally forth the warlike sons of France, As prisoned lions vainly lash the bar, To foil the miner in his bold advance, And rages on the isthmus fiercest war; Full many a shrapnell shell doth strew afar Its withering shower of lead in thickest hail. But what can like the British bayonet mar Thy prowess, France? Before ’t the sallyers quail, And fly like scattered hawks flung headlong on the gale.